


Sounds Like Home

by sleepygirl0305



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables (TV 2018), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Artist Grantaire, Enjolras Is Bad At Feelings, Grantaire speaks many languages, M/M, Oblivious Grantaire, Pining Enjolras, and Enjolras does not know how to react
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-08
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-14 04:52:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29911695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sleepygirl0305/pseuds/sleepygirl0305
Summary: Enjolras discovers, in five different instances, that Grantaire can speak at least five other languages. Each with their own sounds, their own flow, and each for their own reason why Grantaire knows of it. And over time, he discovers why.
Relationships: Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 63





	Sounds Like Home

**Author's Note:**

> today on: grantaire is super talented at literally everything
> 
> i wanted to write this! i'm trilingual, and i love learning/reading about other languages. each language i chose here actually has some importance to me. i am actually filipino (though i don't speak it as regularly because no one around me speaks it) so i tried to incorporate the language there. i also have a professor named dasgupta (he's one of my favs, but he teaches computer science), so i added that in there too.
> 
> anyways, enjoy a multilingual grantaire and an enjolras who is shook at this man's talent.

The first time, it’s when Marius introduces Cosette to their group.

In the past month, whenever there was a lull in meetings, Marius would launch into an excited tirade about how beautiful his new girlfriend was, about how kind she was, and how she seemed to be a light in a dark night. Enjolras rolled his eyes every time he heard it. Pontmercy sounded like a lovesick puppy. And everyone in the group teased him for it, calling the mysterious girlfriend “Rapunzel”, because, in the words of Courfeyrac, “she has Marius wrapped around her hair, not her little finger.”

So Enjolras is a little surprised when Pontmercy enters the Musain with the woman in question, because she didn’t have long hair at all. She’s petite, almost a head and a half shorter than her boyfriend, with black haircut just past her chin. He thinks that she must be Asian. She introduces herself with a big smile, her long-sleeved sweater covering her hand like a paw.

“Hi, I’m Cosette. Marius has told me a lot about all of you!” Everyone greets her amiably. It seems like her presence alone is cheering everyone up from the dreadful, dreary weather outside.

Just then, her phone rings, and she digs into her jean pocket and answers.

“Hello?” She says, “Oh! Hi Appa…”

Then she launches into a foreign language that Enjolras has no clue what it might be. The lilt in her voice changes, reaching half an octave louder. It sounds like a song.

In the corner of his eye, he sees Grantaire visibly light up, putting down his third glass of wine. Enjolras resists rolling his eyes. He has no idea why R would care about this, but he’s probably going to make some sarcastic remark to someone he just met.

Cosette finally switches to English, “Okay, Appa. I’ll see you later. I love you.”

She hangs up her phone, and Grantaire stands up to make a beeline for her. Cosette peers at him curiously as he walks to her. He opens his mouth and surprises Enjolras when he says in the most natural voice, “Annyeonghaseyo!”

She brightens up, her jaw dropping slightly, before she begins speaking a million miles per hour. Grantaire replies, his sentences just a beat slower, but he sounds relaxed. Like a native. 

Everyone else around them is chatting to each other, and Enjolras is the only one watching them. Cosette finally grabs his hands and appears sincere, telling R, “You have no idea how happy this makes me. I only speak Korean with my papa. But it’s my first language, and I think about everything in Korean. It’s going to be so nice to have a friend who I can finally converse with!”

Just then, Combeferre clears his throat, and people begin to take their seats. Grantaire nods at Cosette, saying one more phrase in Korean, before heading back to his table with Joly and Bossuet. 

“Where the hell did you learn Korean, R?” Enjolras hears Joly say. 

He simply shrugs, and says, “My best friend growing up was a Korean immigrant. I learned how to converse with his parents because they couldn’t speak French. It’s a beautiful language. It feels like home.”

For the rest of the meeting, Enjolras thinks about that phrase.  _ It feels like home.  _

+

The second time, it’s when he’s headed to office hours with his professor. 

He needs his advice for a debate competition, because this particular professor was brilliant. Everyone in the university was surprised when Professor Dasgupta was hired by the university, but he quickly proved himself more than worthy of his position. His French was not yet perfect, but his teaching skills in Legal Communication and Research made him one of the most sought after professors in the  _ world.  _ He was serious and intimidating as hell, but he was good at what he did. 

He stopped short of his office when he heard loud, raucous laughter. A laugh that almost shakes the ground a little. He frowned slightly, making sure he was at the right office. And he was at the exact moment office hours started, so he’s definitely here at an appropriate time. 

He lightly knocks on the door, and waits for a moment before his professor opens the door. Dasgupta always wore suits, the perfect model of a lawyer. 

“Ah, Mr. Enjolras.” He cleared his throat, opening his door a little further, “Sorry about that. I was just conversing with someone.” 

It’s about then that he realized who he’s speaking to: Grantaire, seated on the chair opposite Dasgupta’s desk. His eyes widen slightly at the sight, and of course, his professor notices.

“This is Mr. Grantaire,” he gestures to him, and Grantaire gives him a small awkward wave, taken aback himself, “We were just catching up. It is not often you find someone in Paris who speaks Hindi as well as he does,” he turns to give the dark-haired man a rare smile, “I will see you another time, Grantaire. Good luck with your painting, I will be at your exhibit.”

R gives a small rogue smile, “Thank you, Hari.”  _ He calls Professor Dasgupta by his first name?  _ “Please tell your wife and son I said hello.”

Later on, in the meeting that afternoon, Enjolras spots Grantaire sketching in a pad. He’d been curious all afternoon, wondering how he had both managed to make Dasgupta laugh, and where on earth he learned the language.

“Hey, R.” He greets, trying to sound neutral.

He looks up, surprised, before raising an eyebrow, “Hey. Everything okay? Is this about the pasta incident from last week?”

“No,” Thought he would be lying to himself if he said he wasn’t annoyed by what happened, “I actually just wanted to ask. How do you know Dasgputa? And well, how do you even know Hindi?”

Grantaire puts his pencil down, “I immediately went to meet him after he started teaching. I told him I hadn’t spoken Hindi in a while and would just love to chat with him. He was really excited. He was still learning French, so I helped him out and showed him around the city. As for how I know Hindi…”

He huffs a laugh, “I loved watching Bollywood movies in high school. Watched one everyday. One day, I got tired of having to read the subtitles, so I just learned it. I just sat and read books, watched YouTube videos. It ended up paying off, because I still watch Bollywood movies on the regular.”

“Huh.” Enjolras is speechless at the story. That you could learn a difficult language just for fun.

“Yeah,” Grantaire looks wistful, “It’s nice to have someone to converse with. I didn’t really have that when I started learning. Thanks to Dasgupta, the language is starting to feel like home.”

+

The third time, it’s at a party at Courfeyrac’s place. A party that Enjolras really did not want to be at. 

“Courf, come on. I’m so tired from finals,” he had told him a few hours before, “Can’t you just let me go to bed?” 

“Okay, if it helps, I’ll turn down the music and reduce the drinks. Happy?”

Enjolras had a hard time saying no to his friends. 

So he’s there, with a gross beer in his hands. Far away, Grantaire is playing pong with Feuilly, yelling at him how unfair he was. He was surprisingly sober. He wouldn’t admit it out loud, but Enjolras noticed he was drinking less. He still had ridiculous comments at meetings, though, but no longer with the slow words or the slumped posture. Maybe it was progress.

Just then, there was a knock on the apartment door. Courfeyrac walked to open it, and as soon as he opened it, there was a loud distressed voice, speaking in an unrecognizable language. Everyone walked to the threshold, and saw a woman, wildly gesturing, tears in her eyes. 

“I don’t know what she’s saying,” Courfeyrac looked just as stressed, “I don’t understand her gestures.”

The woman had started crying, her words coming out as sobs. Just then, Grantaire weaved through their friends and leaned against the door frame. He started speaking in a soothing voice, his words matching her from earlier.

She immediately relaxed, nodding and responding to Grantaire. She still seemed stressed, as if unsure what to do. Finally, he turned around to his friends.

“Her daughter just hit her head on something and is unconscious. She doesn’t know how to get to the hospital. She can’t afford the ambulance ride, and she doesn’t have a car. Is anyone willing to drive her to the hospital?”

Bahorel volunteers, and Grantaire turns to the woman and communicates to her. She profusely thanks him, before leading them to what is presumably her apartment. 

The party goes on, and Feuilly picks up the pong game with Eponine, who is beating him by a landslide. Enjolras watches, deep in thought. After about half an hour, the two come back.

“How’s her daughter?” Combeferre asks.

“She’s fine, she woke up on our way to the hospital, but they’re getting it checked. Seemed serious.” Grantaire said, “I might have to leave early again to help translate. The woman just moved here to seek asylum, she has no idea how to speak French yet.”

“R, you’re a damn savior,” Bahorel said, clapping him on the back, “She was much more chill once you came and sat in the car with her.”

He shrugged, “My Swahili is not as good as it used to be. I learned it because, somehow, it was offered in elementary school. They were threatening to fire the teacher because no one ever signed up for classes. So I took it on. Didn’t seem fair. I like speaking it. It sounds like home, in some ways.”

“You are such a saint sometimes,” Courfeyrac teases.

Enjolras secretly agrees.

+

The fourth time, Enjolras is halfway sure that Grantaire knows every language in the entire planet. And for some secret reason, every time he hears a new word from him, it makes his heart beat slightly faster. 

Grantaire speaks Korean almost regularly now with Cosette. At his exhibit a couple of months ago, Dasgupta raved in an excited voice about a painting in Hindi. They never heard about the other woman again, but Grantaire mentioned once or twice about taking her grocery shopping and helping her child enroll in school. And, of course, he spoke French to their group, occasionally breaking out in English.

And now, they were at a conference, all suited up, all sitting together at a table. Grantaire looked uncomfortable, but Enjolras thought that his dark blue jacket and suit pants made him...look good. Pretty good. It was rare to see him in anything that fit his silhouette, and now, he could actually see the toned arms, the strong back muscles…

Enjolras quickly turned away, trying to busy himself with papers. Just a few moments later though, he heard someone cry out with excitement, “Omar! Omar!”

He then turned to see Grantaire standing up and bear hugging a smaller man, also suited up. The two of them immediately launched into a conversation in another language, words that sounded throaty and flowing together. 

Combeferre turned and raised an eyebrow, “How many languages does he know?”

Jehan turned and replied, “According to him, not a lot. But I myself have lost count,” they rolled their eyes, “It’s something he’s really proud of, though.”

Meanwhile, Grantaire clapped the man on his back, “Your parents must be so proud of you. Look at you. A superstar!”

The man named Omar grinned, “Thank you, R. Are you here to present as well?”

He snorted, “No, I’m the resident useless one. I just sit there and look pretty. Or Enjolras, too,” Enjolras feels his cheeks burning, “Everyone, this is Omar. I used to tutor him in French when he moved here when he was a kid, and in turn, he taught me Arabic. He made me feel at home with it. He’s a college kid now. He’ll be presenting today, too!”

+

That same night, Enjolras' mind was spinning from drinking a little too much wine at the afterparty. Their presentation had gone so well that people came up to congratulate them, and he felt like he really needed to wind down.

He had gotten up to go downstairs to the lobby to ask for another bottle of wine when he stumbled across Grantaire returning to their room, holding out his arms, “Whoa, careful. You were about to fall.”

Enjolras waved his hands, “I’m fine. Don’t worry about it.”

Grantaire smiled slightly, “Okay. Do you want me to come with you?”

“Sure, I could use the company,” He slurred the words slightly, “Maybe you can teach me some Arabic. Or Swahili. Or, uh…”

“I’ll teach you any foreign language, man. Don’t worry.”

They made their way down the stairs, asking the restaurant for a wine and pizza, and as they stood there, waiting, Enjolras let the drunken state give him a bit of courage, and he tried to speak as clearly as possible.

“I wasn’t kidding, though. I’d actually like to learn some words from you. Would you like to come over one time, and we can just chat and talk about some words? In, uh, other languages?”

Grantaire blinks, before chuckling, “Sure, Apollo. Anything for you.”

+

One tutoring session turns into a date, thanks to Enjolras’ “smooth talking” which involved stumbling some words together. But on the night of their date, it rains heavily, so they cancel their outing and retreat to Grantaire’s apartment instead, where he’s cooking. 

They’re setting the table when there’s a knock on his door.

Grantaire frowns and stands, “I can’t possibly know who’d be out late at night. Give me a moment.”

He opens the door, and Enjolras sees a woman with golden-bronzed skin, graying hair, and a yellow raincoat. She’s also tearing up, crying softly, before she gathers Grantaire in her arms. He hugs back, but his face is still surprised.

“Tita…” he says before launching into a new language. This time, Enjolras strains to listen to what he’s saying. Alas, he can’t figure out the language at all. Still, he can pick out certain words and maybe gather what they were saying.

“Di ko maintindihan kung bakit ganito siya,” the woman sighs, rubbing her eyes, “Pero ayaw niya akong kausapin. Baka makikinig siya sayo.”

The words, this time, sound like a waterfall. Every word is a natural blooming to the other. You could almost tell what sound came next. Grantaire’s voice is tender and understanding as he replies:

“Sige. Kakausapin ko siya bukas. Sabihin mo sa kanya na magbibisita ako sa umaga.”

“Salamat, Grantaire.”  _ Thank you, Grantaire. _

Just then, she turns her head and notices Enjolras watching them. And ever so slightly, her lips quirk up before she turns back to Grantaire and says something quietly. His face flushes red, right down to his root, and Enjolras badly wants to know what she’s just said.

“Hello!” The woman just adds in then, her English slightly accented, “Sorry for interrupting. I always like to pay my favorite nephew a visit.” She turns back to Grantaire and smiles, “I won’t bother you anymore. Ingat, anak.”

The door closes, and Grantaire says, “Sorry about that. That was my aunt. She and my cousin are arguing, and she typically goes to me to settle anytime the arguments get too intense. She basically raised me, honestly.”

“What were you speaking just now?” Enjolras asked, his eyes keeping hold of Grantaire’s.  _ His eyes are so warm. _

“Tagalog. I never actually mentioned,” Grantaire gestured at his face, “I’m half-Filipino. She’s my mother’s sister. I’ve spoken the language my entire life, so it sounds like home. It’s always been home.”

+

Sometime that night, Enjolras leans in and lightly kisses Grantaire, who responds by pulling him closer and cupping his cheek. He kisses him in ways that have Enjolras weak at the knees, hands shaking slightly, thinking about how talented this man’s tongue has to be to speak foreign languages like a natural and kiss him enough to get roaring butterflies.

Half past midnight, they’re sitting on the couch, holding each other close. Grantaire’s just admitted to Enjolras, “I’ve liked you for years.” while Enjolras admits the same, “Even if it took me ages to realize it.” They’re both smiling at each softly, hands clasped.

“You speak so many languages. It’s so cool, R.” He says, “How does each one sound like? How do you tell the difference?”

Grantaire pauses, before saying, “French sounds convincing, almost harsh but in a nice way. English is complex, and takes on a lot of rules. Korean is like a little song. Hindi is a continuous rhythm with an unstoppable beat. Swahili flows together. Tagalog is similar, it’s like telling a story.”

“Do you think the same about people, too? Like how they sound?”

“I do. People sound different, distinct.”

“And what do I sound like?” Enjolras lets the words tumble before he can stop them.

And Grantaire leans in, as if to tell him a secret, and his voice falls out with the words, like a natural.

“You sound like a place that’s becoming home.”

**Author's Note:**

> being multilingual is HARD. anyone who speaks more than one/two languages has my immediate respect. 
> 
> thanks for reading! any feedback is always appreciated :))


End file.
